


Down in the Valley

by Elsin



Series: Malfoy Girl [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (that's a trope and you can fight me on it), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Draco Malfoy-centric, Gen, Minor Character Death (Mentioned), Not Epilogue Compliant, Not Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Compliant, Post-Canon, Pre-Epilogue, Time Travel, the little shop that wasn't there yesterday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 08:22:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18616819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsin/pseuds/Elsin
Summary: The war is over, but the Malfoy family is a shattered husk of its former self.  Two years on, Draco, estranged from Wizarding society, finds something that could change everything.





	Down in the Valley

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Dalia for betaing this.

When the door to the narrow shop was pushed open, a string of bells gently rang their song into the dusty, sunlit air of the interior.  Across the threshold stepped a tall, thin young man.  He was dressed all in black but for the dark green scarf wound around his neck and across the lower half of his face, above which tired gray eyes and pale skin were visible.  His hair was a muddy reddish-brown, but his eyebrows were far paler than that; the inconsistency was striking.

There was no one in the shop with him, not even behind the counter, but in a small back room sat a much older man.  Age had not robbed him of his swift mind, nor the laughter dancing in his eyes, but gazing into a shallow, water-filled bowl—which showed an image of the young man in the shop—his sorrow was palpable.  He gave a slight sigh, and stood, touching the surface of the water to dispel the image.  Then he opened the door to the rest of the shop, and quietly took his place behind the counter while the young man’s back was turned.

“Good afternoon, young man,” said the shopkeeper.  The young man in question flinched and turned swiftly to him, a gloved hand darting towards his pocket before awkwardly falling back to his side.

“You weren’t here a moment ago,” said the young man.

“I suppose I wasn’t.”

“What is this place, anyway?”  The young man gestured vaguely around at the shop.  “I’ve been down this street enough times that I know the place by heart, and I’ve never seen this door before.”  He paused, frowning, for a moment.  “I mean, I suppose I’ve seen it before.  But it’s always got a ‘for lease’ sign in it.”

“Perhaps I leased it, then,” said the shopkeeper, but the young man snorted.

“With this amount of dust?  Not likely.”

“If you’re so sure that this little shop of mine wasn’t here yesterday, then why come in at all?  Surely it might be… dangerous?”  The shopkeeper had a small, sly grin on his face, and the young man looked away, running a hand through his reddish-brown hair.  His mouth and chin were still hidden by his scarf, but it had slipped down enough to show most of his nose.

“Maybe I’m just tired,” said the young man.  “Maybe I don’t really care anymore.  Maybe, if you’re dangerous… maybe it’s what I deserve.”

“Now, now, none of that,” said the shopkeeper.  “That attitude won’t do at all.”

The young man scowled.  “And what’s it to you?  Why should you care?  You don’t even know me.”  His hands were now shoved into his pockets, and his shoulders were hunched as he glared at a particularly inoffensive shelf of leather bookmarks.

“My dear boy,” said the shopkeeper, “I know  _ everybody _ .”

“Sure you do.”

“Ah, you doubt me.  Perfectly understandable.  Shall I demonstrate?”

“Why not.”  The young man sighed.  “It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do, after all.”

“You have a long, troubled past, a history brimming with darkness.  You wish it gone; you wish it could all have gone differently, for you have so very many regrets.”

“You sound like a fortune cookie.  You could’ve said that to anyone.”

“Shall I rephrase?”  The shopkeeper’s voice was suddenly sharp, and the young man looked up to see bright green eyes boring into him.  “There is a mark on your arm, and because of it and your teenage arrogance you have been sidelined in magical society.  You wish it gone.”

The young man froze, then glared at the shopkeeper.  “And what of it?  I won’t ask how you know who I am.  I don’t actually care.  But that’s not the kind of magic that comes out.  And I may have been sixteen and an idiot, but it’s done now; and that kind of thing, once it’s done?  It cannot be undone.”

“But let me ask—in an academic sense—would you undo it, if you could?”

“Of course,” said the young man, tilting his head to the side a little.  “Who wouldn’t?”

“Many men older and ostensibly wiser than you, for starters,” said the shopkeeper.  “Saying you would undo your past self’s actions requires both humility and self-awareness.”

“Could’ve used that about three fucking years ago,” said the young man.  He gave up pretending to peruse the trinkets on the shelves of the shop, and approached the counter.  “Why ask, though?  Surely you don’t think I can change.”  Though he worked hard to suppress it, the careful listener would have heard a subtle hope blooming in his voice; the shopkeeper was one such man.

“Oh, you can’t change it from where you are now,” said the shopkeeper.  “Not even I could do that, with all the power I wield.  There  _ is  _ another option, though.”

“And what’s that?” asked the young man, leaning forward, a fierce hunger in his eyes.

“You wish to know?”

“Yes.”

“Then let us make a deal,” said the shopkeeper, a broad grin spreading across his face as he looked upon the young man.  “I can assure you that you will not regret it.”

* * *

 

Twenty minutes later, the young man stepped out of the shop and back onto the dull, rundown street he’d been traveling upon.  On the surface, above his clothes, he looked no different, but around each wrist was a thin gold band set with gems and carvings, and in his pocket was a small, carefully wrapped bottle, filled with cloudy gold.  His heart pounded in his throat as he set off down the street.

It was early summer in London; this day was one of clouded skies and unseasonably cool weather.  This was part of the reason behind the young man’s attire.  The other reason was more pragmatic: he did not want to be recognized, and magical disguises were far too easy to bypass.  That day, no one saw through his disguise, and he made his way home unaccosted.

Once there, he shed his scarf and gloves and sat down on his couch, the small bottle on the table before him seeming to stare back at him.  His hands shook in his lap.  He could put this off, if he wanted to, but now that the bracelets were on his fate was sealed.  There was no going back.  And really, why would he want to?  There was nothing for him here.

His father was serving a life sentence in Azkaban, and was not allowed visitors.  His mother had died the previous summer, wasting away from grief or some such nonsense.  He himself was on probation and under heavy surveillance, and he was no longer allowed a wand.

“Oh, what the hell,” he said to himself.  Then he picked up the bottle, uncorked it, and in one swift motion tossed it back.  At once a light, tingly feeling ran through him, and his extremities began to numb; his consciousness began to slip away, and he slumped back on the couch.

Draco Malfoy felt himself dissolve, and opened his eyes to find himself ten years in the past.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the prologue to a longer fic I'm working on, but I think it works reasonably well as a standalone too, as long as you don't mind a semi-cliffhanger ending. Sorry about that.


End file.
